


A Fair Price

by zefive



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, post season one finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 15:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zefive/pseuds/zefive
Summary: Webby’s family. And there’s nothing Louie wouldn’t give for family.





	A Fair Price

**Author's Note:**

> this might be kind of nonsensy and rambly, and not that good, but FUCK IT, it's midnight and i'm HIGH ON BAD DECISIONS

Webby misses Lena.

It’s rather obvious, really. She’ll tangle her fingers in the bracelet around her wrist, will get this _look_ on her face, like her heart’s been torn out and thrown away, and grief is painted clear as day on her face, in her posture, in every _line_ of her.

And Louie hates it.

Because the thing is, Webby’s a _good kid_ \- she’s nice and kind and downright _amazing_ , and she’s like the sister he’s never had, the fourth piece of their pizza, and she doesn’t _deserve_ to carry that grief on her, to wear it around her wrist like anchors.

Louie knows what grief does to someone.

And he’s not the only one who’s noticed, he _knows_ \- everyone is softer around her, more quick to reach out and touch her shoulder, her arm. To _be there_ , but it’s just- not enough.

Because Louie’s got an eye for this, okay. He knows _people_ , knows how to read them and _understand_ them, to predict their thoughts, to figure out where exactly they’re softest, where his words would hurt _the most_. That’s the thing about who he is, and so he _knows_.

Webby hasn’t known Lena for long, that’s true. It’s been a few months, not even a year- so to everyone else this isn’t something to worry too much over. Sure, Webby really liked Lena, sure she was her _best friend_ , but she’ll get over it.

They didn’t know each other for that long, after all.

Except Louie’s got eyes, got a habit of keeping tabs on his family, and Webby’s doing _bad_. This isn’t _losing a hamster we only had for a month_. This is _losing someone that’s so important they’re an actual part of you_ , and Louie _knows_ he’s the only one who’s realised how bad this really is.

Because Webby _loves_ Lena. Because that damn girl was more important to Webby than a lot of things, wormed her way into Webby’s heart and made a nest there, and now it’s empty and hollow, and Webby’s _crumpling_.

And Louie’s the only one who’s _noticed_.

Webby smiles and jokes and does a good job of acting like she’s kind of okay- but there’s moments where she’ll just, _stop_. Where her eyes glaze over and tears well in them, and at first it was just at home. But then one time he catches _that look_ on her face while they’re adventuring, and Louie can’t just let that _slide_ , okay.

He can’t.

So he keeps his eyes on her, keeps her in the corner of his vision, and at first that’s all it is- it’s him keeping tabs, figuring out what to do, and it’s days later, late in the hour, when he sees it.

Webby’s palling around with Dewey, is smiling and joking, and Louie’s half-focusing on her, torn between that and poking around on his phone, and there’s a _flicker_ -

His eyes snap to the movement.

And right there on the wall, face alive and soft, is Lena.

It’s not _Lena_ , of course. Not really- it’s Webby’s shadow, stretched out along the wallpaper, shifted into the shape _of_ Lena, and Louie’s eyes goes wide, hands going lax around his phone, and _what the heck_.

The shadow moves; Lena looks over at him, and her face goes wide, goes _shocked_ , and there’s a thousand words tumbling their way down to his beak, worming their way onto his tongue, and her face flicker-snaps to panic, and she raises one finger to her beak.

 _Shh_ , she doesn’t say. _Don’t tell_.

And Louie’s beak snaps shut, and before he can even think of going against that request, his phone tumbles out of his hands, and hits him right in the foot.

“ _Ow_ -” he curls forward, shakes out his foot- and as he collects his phone, pouts at his siblings laughter, he flickers his eyes up to the wall, and sees nothing but empty space.

-

So. Lena’s not dead.

It’s kind of a revelation, a _big deal_ , and Louie doesn’t quite know how to handle it, because this is, like, _really big_. And he wants to tell Webby, wants to draw her aside and tell her that her best friend, that piece of her she thinks is gone and dead, is actually _alive_ and stuck in her shadow, or whatever the heck’s going on here.

But this isn’t his secret to tell.

And Lena made it clear that she doesn’t _want_ Louie to tell, that this is something she wants- what, kept secret? And Louie doesn’t _get why_ , because this is doing nothing but hurting Webby, is _tearing her apart_ , and what- can’t Lena _see that_? Is he literally the only one with _eyes_?

So he’s frustrated, he’s _angry_ , finds himself hunched over his phone, tapping his fingers against the case, face set and eyes narrowed, and his brothers circle around him, poking and prodding, asking without words what’s up, and he _can’t tell them_.

And he doesn’t know what to do.

He wants to _help_ , wants to _fix_ this- because somehow he seems to be the only one who’s actually noticed how _miserable_ Webby is, and he can’t handle that, he can’t just let her _suffer_ , especially not over something like _this_ , something that’s nothing more than a secret wrapped in shadows and misunderstandings, and Louie _needs to help_.

Because that’s the best thing about him, really. His loyalty, that _need_ to protect his family above everything else, and Webby is _family_ , and she’s _hurting_ , and he needs to _help her_.

It’s bloody fingers in his head, nestle-claws and thorns, and Louie lies awake at night, eyes open, thinking.

In the end, it’s sheer luck he finds the solution.

Duckburg’s big and weird and Louie knows people, people he can ask, can weasel information out of without even asking, and it’s an older bird, owner of some kind of antique store, who mentions the legend.

The Wish Granter, they call it, in the kind of tone one usually uses for scary stories, and Louie leans in without meaning to, focuses all of his attention on _this_ , because it sounds perfect, really.

“They’ll grant you any wish,” they say, “but there’s always a price.”

And of course there is- there’s always something to give, always some kind of price tag, and Louie’s not even surprised, because this is just how the world works, really.

Can’t get anything without working for it.

“And what?” he asks, elbow against the desk. “You just- ask your mirror? Chants its name three times?”

The bird scoffs. “Nothing so _foolish_ ,” they say. “If you seek the Wish Granter, you must meet them at midnight, when the moon is new and the sky is clear.”

Louie rests his chin in his palm, opens the notes on his phone. “So, what- anywhere’s good?”

The bird looks down at him, sharp-eyed and suddenly _aware_ , and Louie goes cold.

“You shouldn’t mess with this,” they say, tone clear. “The price is far too high for a child like you.”

And a flush burns like fire across his face, and Louie pushes himself away from the desk, stows both hands in his pockets. Scoffs.

“Like I’d be stupid enough to do that,” he says, barely managing to keep his tone from biting, and he leaves before the bird can point out the way his shoulders are raised, or the way his hands are clenched in his pockets.

Because the price doesn’t matter, not with something like _this_. Webby’s family, and there’s nothing Louie wouldn’t give for family.

So anywhere will have to make do.

-

The sky is, actually, clear.

It’s also cold and dark, and Louie’s got his flash light on, the cone of light swishing ahead of his feet, and sneaking out was surprisingly easy, really.

It might have been because the latest adventure tuckered everyone out, sapped them all of their energy, and if it wasn’t for the new moon clear up in the sky, Louie would be in bed too.

But it’s now or never, because Webby’s crumpling, and Lena is a rope around his neck, getting tighter each day that passes.

So here he is, leaves crunching beneath his feet, shoulders hunched and phone-light swaying across the pathway, and he really has _no idea_ how he’s supposed to find this guy.

“... Wish Granter?” he tries, because it’s all he has.

The trees swallow his voice, eats the name and spits out nothing but silence, and maybe this was a bad idea- there’s shadows all over the ground, and he’s _alone_ , and _shit_ , this was _such a mistake_ -

He swivels on his heel, body moving, eyes going up- and there’s someone right there.

Louie jerks back. The phone slips from his fingers, clatters to the ground, and the light spins out across the field, lights up the leaves and the trees for a single second, before falling flat on its back and disappearing.

And it’s dark.

Louie’s wire-tense, throat closed and heart beating quick as a rabbit, and _shit_ , he’s going to die, isn’t it. There’s a serial killer right in front of him, and they’re going to _stab him to death_ , and this is _the worst_ timing.

Webby’s going to fall apart.

The thought sticks its fingers in deep, and he _can’t_ do that to her, he just _can’t_. So he takes a step back, _prays_ that the serial killer doesn’t have night vision goggles, and gets ready to _run_.

“You called me.”

\- what?

He blinks.

The dark ebbs away, shifts into half-grey shades, and the person- some kind of dog, maybe- looks back at him with clear eyes, with a face open and calm.

“I- _what_?”

The person leans forward, raises one hand to press the fingers against their chest, and they _smile_ , razor-sharp and fanged, and Louie’s frozen in place, breath stuck in his throat.

“The Wish Granter,” they say. “At your service.”

The silence settles, crisp and clear, and Louie’s shocked, is at a loss for words. His head is reeling, his thoughts are scrambling, and the Wish Granter waits patiently, smile sharp as a knife.

“You- you’re real.”

They tilt their head- ears straight, eyes bright in the half-dark, and Louie feels small, feels _tiny_. There’s a thousand alarm bells going off in his head, something primal and instinctive screaming _danger_ , but-

Webby.

“I have a wish for you to grant,” he says, and the Wish Granter’s smile widens, sings like steel.

“There’s a hefty price for this wish of yours,” they say, tone more amused than cautioning.

“I know,” he says, and he _does_. “I just don’t care.”

Because Webby’s _family_. And that’s really all that matters.

-

Hands.

There’s hands on her arms- warm, _real_. She can feel the press of them on her, can feel cloth against her skin, and Lena furrows her brows, because that’s not- right.

“Lena!”

A familiar voice- it sings in her head, warms her from the inside out, and Lena knows this voice is _important_ , belongs to someone she holds dear.

\- Webby, she realises, and her eyes snap open.

 _Webby_ , she realises, and feels a weight in her gut, because this isn’t _right_ \- she’s a shadow, is bound to the dark and to silence, and Webby’s not supposed to _know_ , yet there she is, crying out _her_ name with joy and relief, and-

And Webby’s leaning into her, eyes welling with tears, smiling so wide it must hurt.

“You’re okay!” she blubs, and Lena blinks, can’t really do anything but- her head’s scrambled, her thoughts a mess, and when Webby throws her arms around her, she doesn’t do anything but let her.

“You’re _okay_ -!” Webby cries, and suddenly she’s actually _crying_ , shaking and blubbering, and Lena looks down at her, eyes wide, and doesn’t know what to do.

“I- yeah,” she says, and pats Webby’s back. “I’m. Okay?”

She raises her head; looks out around her, and she’s in the middle of the mansion’s living room, sitting on the carpet, and Huey and Dewey are both staring wide-eyed at her, apparently as confused as she is.

“What- happened?” she asks, and looks back down at Webby, who’s _still_ crying, and that’s- weird, right?

She curls her hand around the back of Webby’s neck, presses her palm against her back, and it’s odd, being able to _feel_ the cloth and the muscle and everything.

“Webby, I’m okay,” she says, and her shirt is starting to get wet. “You can stop crying.”

And apparently that’s the wrong thing to say, because Webby jerks herself away, _glares_ up at her with red-rimmed eyes, and shouts: “Shut up!”

Lena leans back, blinks.

“I thought you were _dead_!” Webby cries, pitched and strangled. “I thought I would _never_ see you again!”

Her face wavers. Shoulders raising, eyes going shiny. Her voice is choked, when she speaks again.

“I thought I had lost you.”

Tears roll down her face, shiny and wet, and Webby crumples, breaks in on herself, hands going to her face and back bending, and she’s _sobbing_.

“I-” the words stick in Lena’s throat. “I didn’t… realise you cared that much.”

And it’s true. And right now, looking at Webby crying so hard it seems like she’s shaking apart, Lena realises maybe that’s not true at all.

Webby sputter-laughs. “Of _course_ I care!” she says, and there’s not a trace of amusement there. “You- I _love_ you, Lena.”

There’s a thousand things Lena could say, right here. A thousand words to describe the way her heart stops in her chest, the way everything just, _stops_.

All she can offer is a quiet, shocked “ _oh_.”

Webby wipes at her face, sniffs- then, like it’s something she _needs_ , she throws herself right back at Lena, wraps her arms around her tight and buries her face in Lena’s hoodie.

“I don’t care how you got back,” she mumbles. “I’m just glad you’re _back_.”

Lena rests a hand in Webby’s hair, blinks down at her- looks up at the boys, trading glances with each other, at Miss Beakley standing in the door, watching her with something soft and relieved on her face. At Scrooge at the bottom of the stairs, looking at her with a look she can’t quite place, and she curls her fingers into the strands of Webby’s hair.

“Yeah,” she says, and goes over the people once more.

There’s something, niggling at the back of her mind- and maybe she should be focusing on her emotions, the tangle-knot in her chest, but she can do that another day, can unravel them as they go, because it’s a tight-knot thing, and right now, all she can really focus in is the _lack_.

“Not to change the subject,” she starts, carefully picking her way to the thought. “But- where’s Louie?”

She looks down at Webby, expects to hear something along the lines of _he went to bed early_ , or _he’s out in the houseboat_ , but that’s not what she gets.

Instead Webby looks up at her with a furrowed brow, genuine confusion on her face.

“Louie?” she asks. “Who’s _Louie_?”

**Author's Note:**

> the Wish Granter's a coyote, by the way


End file.
